Bad Parenting/Bad Coaching

I'm not sure how this is going to come off, so I'll just tell it and let you decide. Amazingly enough, this involves little kids—not high school or college age. These are eight-year-old kids. I coach my son's soccer team, and we had a great season last spring, losing to only one team. We lost one of our best players this season and got another who has never played and can't really run, shoot, dribble or pass, so I expected that this would be a lesson to the kids in "you win some, you lose some." And that has turned out to be the case.

Realize before I go any further that I probably know every kid that plays on every team since I have been volunteering at my son's school for in-school class assistance and at recess, and I have been coaching since Peewees. The one team we lost to last season went undefeated. The coach is very good, but she is also in charge of the league, and has the authority to move kids from one team to another. So what she does when she has a player of similar skill sets to the boy that joined my team this season, she finds a reason to cut him or her. Two seasons ago, she got rid of a sweet girl because she got in a fight with one of the other players. One season ago, she was "told" that my team was too strong, so she gave me one of hers. Then, stunningly, she was winning every game, and rubbing it in after each one, bragging about her strategy and her coaching style.

So by a miracle this season, two of my less-skilled players didn't make the game that we played her team, so I never had to sub out my stars, and we beat her by a single goal. When I went over to her sideline, I explained that it was unfortunate timing for her that our team was stacked the way it was. In other words, I was trying to be gracious. She cut me off and asked me what business I had playing a kid in goal for the whole game (we're supposed to switch goalies every quarter) and I told her that nobody wanted to play it but the kid that did. Then she told me my kids were too rough, which is maddening because my kids are constantly reminded about sportsmanship and fair play, even when teams like hers (yes, I said hers) is throwing elbows, pushing and shoving. I gently reminded her of this (I have witnesses that will testify in court that I was saintly in my patience with her), and she said, "I already talked to my kids about it now talk to yours!"

She had one other criticism, which I bore silently. Then I took my kids out for ice cream.

The next week, as in this last weekend, we played Navy Blue. We went down three nothing within minutes and I thought we were goners, but the kids rallied to tie it up at half. Navy Blue went up again, and again we tied. Now all game, two or three of their kids were elbowing and pushing. But worst, which is illegal at this level in our league, they were slide-tackling, knocking our kids on their faces. The ref was just a passive kid, and I should have protested before it got out of hand, which it was about to. Our star forward took a cleat in the thigh. He buckled over and lay in the fetal position crying. I didn't see who did it or if it was on purpose. I took him out and the game continued. Then, with thirty seconds left in the game, the same kid elbowed my son in the stomach and took the ball down field while my son stumbled forward, arms crossed over his midsection, a couple of other kids of mine looking on concerned. Navy Blue scored and won the game.

It happened so fast that I didn't think to stop the game. The other team celebrated, did the chant and came to shake. I hollered over to the other coaches that they should wait since my kids were in traction.

Kids. Right now I just want to scream. The coaches from the other team didn't even apologize, nor did they seem to think anything untoward had occurred. I wanted to rage at them, but I didn't want to be like that coach I was just describing, even though it would have been justified to do so. They would have just written me off as being just like her, a sore sport and so competitive as to have lost my perspective.

The only thing I told my son after the game is that if another player plays him dirty like that again, to feel free to knock the kid straight on his ass. Because the kid isn't going to learn any lessons from his parents, one of which was his coach, the other looking on from their goal. The only way a kid without any guidance is going to learn sportsmanship is to hear it from the birds whistling around his head. No way am I putting my son in harm's way again by putting a sheep in with a den of wolves. When in Rome…

Anway, I'm pretty steamed right now. Now the team that was undefeated last season, that lost to us this season and to the same Navy Blue we just lost to, wants a rematch. Last season I asked the coach for a rematch to end the season, but a parent from my team said that it might be putting too much pressure on the kids, so I told the team's coach I had made a mistake. She curtly told me she wasn't going to do it anyway. With roles reversed, she didn't bother to ask me this season; she simply used her scheduling authority to make it so, under the political guise of "keeping it competitive."

We're talking about kids, aren't we? Or is this a staging ground for the egos of frustrated parents. I think I realized the latter was my own case last season and had the fortitude to recognize it and keep it fun. But now what do I do?

Should I refuse?

Five Things

I wasn't officially tagged for this, and I won't tag anyone after me. Trevor once commented to the effect that the bloggers who do not get tagged are hurt by the omission. I've felt that disappointment too, so I'm not going to do it. Besides, at the rate I've been posting, this is similar to that mythical tree falling in the woods.

But this meme from ZombieSlayer's blog is kind of interesting because it poses some questions I'd like to answer.

Ten years ago I was:

At my age and stage of life, what I am doing now and what I was doing then only differ by employer and pay scale. Psyche! I was living in my San Francisco apartment back then, and life was totally different. My first-born had yet to make an appearance, and my then girlfriend had just moved in with me. This was that magical time in any new relationship when all your friends disappear and new ones appear in couples. One by one the implements of my bachelorhood were replaced with floral vases, paintings of scenic landscapes, matching table settings and cookware. I learned to say please, thank you, I'm sorry, and yes dear, of course you are right. I also learned that burping was not a compliment to the chef.

Five things on today's to-do list:

I filed an extension to my taxes on April 15^th at 4:45PM, then made a mad dash for the post office which closed at 5. I got there just as the door was being locked. I'm kind of on a new kick—or should I say an evolving kick—to never pay another professional for what I can do myself. This started with the swimming pool. After getting stuck with a bill for five hundred dollars for closing the pool for the winter, I have been doing it myself since, for around thirty five dollars. Then I moved on to installing my own dimmer switches, then graduated to running a new outlet directly from the fuse box. I re-planted grass in my front yard, but I may have to get bailed out of that mess. So now I am doing my own taxes, with the help of Turbo Tax that is. I'm finding that there are a great many more deductions than those that my accountant was able to find. Despite only paying a portion of the estimated taxes that my accountant insisted I do, according to my numbers I still have money coming back. That's the only real item on my list right now, other than getting the house ready to sell if the market will bear it. I really doubt that's going to happen this year. I'm also thinking about growing some vegetables in the back yard.

Things I'd do if I were a billionaire:

Of course this would take some serious thinking, but I would find a place in America where the absence of a common source of income had been removed, and the people there are lost and unemployed. I'd pick a wide open field with a view of the mountains, alongside a lake and rivers and streams--and build a town. I'd create homesteads and give them away to anyone that agreed to farm the land. I'd invite and finance businesses that provide all services that are required for a community to be self-sufficient, the only requirement being that I am a majority shareholder in that business but a silent partner until such a time as that business infringes upon the environment. There would not be a drop of oil in town, unless it was prefixed by Olive. In the mountains I would build a massive wind farm, and start a company to employ the people to build turbines. There would be an ordinance prohibiting any sort of gas consuming vehicle within the range of all this. Anyone caught breaking this rule would have their car impounded and recycled. All homes and businesses would have solar panels, which my new company would provide at cost. I would create a mini-intelligence agency, whose only purpose was to find and prevent any corruption in the governing of this community. I would buy and store the material necessary to build a crenellated wall around the whole thing, and the weaponry and ammo to arm the potential guards that would walk its perimeter—not to protect anyone from terrorists, but from our own, if there ever comes a day when the people can't feed themselves any more.

Or I would start a technology company under the auspices of some abstract concept like "B to B Commerce", and hire all the best hackers from every college. Then we would systematically break into every known government database, into the bank accounts of oil barons and no-bid government contractors, and divert their moneys to making this planet a better place to live on. I'd call this company Sherwood Industries, and my phalanx of programmers the Merry Men (even though a great many of them would be women).

I'd start an online community that brought together people from all sides of the political spectrum, and hire charismatic speakers to spread the message that the people are tired of two-party politics, that democracy doesn't work when it is hijacked by the media and the elite that control it. I would start my own media empire that would be untouchable by anyone. Each station would be independent, just like the sections of a worm that can survive if cut off from the main body.

In short, I would do what I could to keep America free in the strictest sense of the word. I would take back what has been taken from us and bring us closer to the promises made by our Constitution.

Three bad habits:

I'm totally with Zombie on this one: video games. I don't know what to do about this. I think I am a lot like my mother, having an addictive personality. I have to be addicted to something. To pretend otherwise will land me in AA. At least it's video games. To date, I have played Call of Duty 4 for an hourly total of nearly ten days. That's two hundred and forty hours, two complete work weeks. And you wonder where I've been.

Coffee—again with Zombie on this—is another. Although I'm not as bad as I was when I commuted to work. There I would drink it just to be doing something. Now I only drink around two cups a day. But that is fully loaded with caffeine, and that can't be a good thing.

I'll have to ask my wife for a third. I suppose she would say that I don't do my laundry like I should. She has boycotted doing it for me, which is a theme in my life. You see, at heart I am a total slob.

Five places that I have lived:

Akron, Ohio – Where I was born and where, for years, I yearned to return. When I did, I was perplexed to see how run down it was compared to the other places I had lived.

Niscayuna, New York – I remember this most fondly when I was a kid. There was a network of trails in the woods behind my house that in one direction led to a golf course. I came back for a night visit when I was first on my own and passing through the area and found that it has all been developed with new homes.

Juneau, Alaska – A great place to be from, and even a better place to live if you love a glacial backdrop and have a taste for the outdoor life. The former I have to admit never really got old, but the latter was not me in the slightest. The most memorable characteristic of my high school brethren was a tendency to settle arguments with a fist, which was not my gift. But come to think of it, that was the way of things at every school I went to. If I could have only learned to go right down the middle with a haymaker, how easier life might have been.

Hayden Lake, Idaho - Turns out that I wasn't far from the heart of the Arian Nation when I lived here. When I pointed this out to my father, he told me that some of his friends at the time were heavily involved. Now that's scary.

San Francisco, California – I already mentioned it earlier, but I would like to point out that I have never lived in a more beautiful city (and I have lived in quite a few, more than I have listed here) than San Francisco. This city is contained in about a seven mile by seven mile box, but is packed with wonderful surprises. You could be a block away from a children's park or a highly eclectic street of shops and not even know it. There is a pride in knowing your way around the city, and where to find a great place to eat for pennies on the dollar. Of all the places I have ever been, this is the one that I would go back to if I had enough money to do so comfortably.

Five jobs I've had in my life

My first job was toting supplies for my dad and his cronies on various home building projects. My official title was Dumb Ass, Shit Head, Lazy Ass, Dumb Fuck, Shit for Brains, and Slow Leak, depending on the day. Ah, those were the days.

At sixteen I was a windshield washer for a Chevron gas station.

After that I bagged groceries for the super market in the same shopping center. I got fired for calling in sick and playing the junior-senior football game, which we, the juniors, won. It was worth it

After that, McDonald's. The hardest job that I have ever had.

My dad met the woman that he is still married to today when he picked her and her girlfriend up on the side of the road hitchhiking. He was running a major construction operation, with about a hundred employees, composing three framing crews, crews for soffet, vinyl siding and manual laborers for set up and clean up. When he met the love of his life (he was still married at the time), he dropped all these responsibilities into my lap and disappeared.

Candidates: Take Note

I posted before about the book I have been reading, The Shell Game, which is basically a fictional account of the world in 2012 headed for the next 9/11. If you are a hardcore liberal, then all the events woven into the lead-up to the upcoming Armageddon will be familiar at best. This will be enough to derail any conservative or Neocon from getting past the first chapter. But for me, a guy who definitely supported the Neocon view of the world, this book is upsetting. And the fact that it has taken me so long to read is a testament to that. It's not that I believe everything the book's author, Steve Alten, proposes as fact, but I cannot discount him either.

The man has done too much homework. You would just have to read the book to fully appreciate just how true that is.

Without permission from the author—but I'm sure he will forgive me—I am going to reproduce a section of his novel. It echoes my exact sentiments on the upcoming election. I've said it before that I need to hear something from the candidate that I will vote for, and that as of today, I have not heard it yet. Natalie (Magnetbabe) told me that I could do some research to determine the positions, and that is true. But the kind of message I'm looking for would find its way to me all by itself.

The following passage needs a bit of preamble. Jennifer Wienner is an ex-Republican strategist who up until recently had vociferously defended the actions of the administration and its war on terror. She dismissed any rumblings of truth as conspiracy theory. But when Republican president McKuin (sounds a little like McCain, no?) has a "stroke" in accordance with one of those crazy theories, she is finally spurred to take action. McKuin is succeeded by the Vice President, Neocon Ellis Prescott. And with him running on the Republican ticket in the '12 election, Jennifer jumps sides and approaches Senator Mulligan, the Democratic nominee for president.

Here it is. And please, please, please, if any of you presidential candidates are reading this (Hillary, Obama, McCain), you will have my undying devotion if you will only have the balls to say and do what this fictional character proposes:

(Excerpt from The Shell Game, pages 243-245)

Senator Mulligan chides him with a look. "What Silas means is we feel pretty good going into the convention. Guess no one expected us to take the nomination from Senator Clinton."

"Sorry to rain on your parade fellas, but the only reason you won the nomination was because the GOP wanted you to win. Their aim was always to drive Hillary and the other front-runners out of the race. Like it or not, you won by default. And here's another reality check, just in case you don't read the papers: Prescott has three times your war chest and a 7 percent lead in the latest poll. Your campaign's floundering; unless you pull a rabbit out of the hat at the convention, you'll be dead as McKuin come November."

Whitener begins to retort, but Mulligan signals refrain. "Fair enough. But if we're in such dire shape, why the sudden interest? I've never heard of a born-again liberal."

Jennifer smiles. "I'm not a liberal, I'm a realist. We're entering dangerous geopolitical waters, and the Neocons prefer force where tact is needed. America needs to steer the western world onto a new course, the question is whether you have the balls to see it through."

"I'm listening."

"The mistake all Democrats make is moving to the center to try to win votes. Americans need a clear choice, not Republican-lite. You need to carry a new message of hope to the American people, and that message is no more oil. 'In '13 we go green.'"

Mulligan glances at the negative response from his staff. "An entire campaign on the environment? I don't know—"

"Not just the environment—energy. Your platform will radically wean us off oil. If Brazil can do it, so can we. No more oil means creating a new infrastructure, one that produces good jobs that will remain in this country. New jobs mean a new tax base that will help clean up the deficit. They ask you about Iraq, and you tell them we went in for oil, but since we won't be needing oil anymore, our boys and girls can come home, and anyone who refuses to allow our kids home is obviously not a patriot or a parent. Every time the Rove Rats toss another God, gays, or guns grenade at you, you'll repeat this exact phrase: 'The election's far too important to the future of our country to be caught up in the usual republican horseshit."

Senator Mulligan looks around the room. "Horseshit? You really want me to use that word?"

"Yeah, I do."

Cesar Diaz shakes his head. "You'll lose the Christian right."

"You never had the Christian right. Let the American public see you as the no-nonsense guy you are, not the wimp these middle-of-the-roaders have turned you into. Speak your mind, but stay on message. When they ask you about Kyoto, you say we'll sign, even if China refuses. Then you force the Chinese to stand alone. They'll cave, believe me. They can barely breathe in their big cities. When the media corners you on abortion, you look them straight in the eye and say, 'I'm all for outlawing abortion, but only if we start doing a better job educating our teenagers about having unprotected sex.' When they ask you about the war on terror, you go back to the energy message, and how it's America's addiction to fossil fuels—an addiction fueled by oil pushers like Ellis Prescott and his new running mate—that helped hijack our foreign policy. Simple message: No more addiction. We create a twelve-step program to wean us on green. In '13 we take our country back from the pushers. You repeat that every day in every interview, in every debate, on every bumper sticker, and you'll win the White House."

Suzie Perlman claps.

Cesar Diaz is not as enthused. "What about money? You start targeting big oil and the military suppliers and—"

"And what? You think the scraps they're tossing you now are meant to feed you? Wake up, Amigo! Those funds are designed to keep you in line. Stick to your message, and money will come—big money---because the majority of Americans actually feel the same way you do, only they've been waiting for a democratic candidate with a set of testicles who can rally the troops while not looking like some staged, gun-toting dork. Bill Clinton may have dipped his wick in the Oval Office, but his poll numbers never dipped; that's because America likes a man in the White House who has something hanging between his legs, not some prissy Ivy Leaguer who spends his weekends sailing. And no photo shoots with Hollywood celebrities! You think Jack and Jill Average American can relate to these people? You graciously accept their contributions and tell them we'll see 'em at the inauguration ball. Until then, just sign the check, and stay the hell off the TV."

Jennifer looks around the room, the men dumfounded, Suzie grinning. "Any questions?"

Senator Mulligan smiles. "When can you start?"

Life

I've been thinking a lot lately about what life is all about. It's kind of corny, but for me it has really boiled down to what Val Kilmer said at the end of Tombstone, and I'm paraphrasing a little: "There is no point to life, Wyatt, there is only life. So go out and live it."

When we were kids, didn't we always think there was some goal to achieve, like our life was a story that just had to have a happy ending? It was always about the future. Some day I'll be rich and drive a Ferrari (I'm too tall for one of those by the way, ditto for the Lambourghini).

I hate to say it, but now my only goal is to pave the way for my children to follow the same dreams, and hopefully make them come true. It's not that I've given up on my own dreams, but I don't feel them as passionately as I did before. It could be the lithium...

(I'm joking about the lithium by the way.)

That might seem defeatist, but it makes me happy to release myself from those lofty expectations. My dad always had his head in the future, promising that someday we would own a ranch and raise horses and grow fields of corn. I suppose we came close when we bought a farm back in the eighties. We had no money, but that never stopped dad. Let's just say he found a way to subsidize our little experiment in life, and all told, I wouldn't take it back for the world. Dad was crooked, and I would never in a million years emulate his style, but he had brass ones, and there were some good times in between the depressions.

Now I have my own kids, and thinking about their future and what a responsible parent could do to make it the best it can be is what moves me anymore. Yesterday I was working and Emmett came in and poked me in the neck with Chopsticks. Later he gave me a Black Spiderman tatoo. Then he told me a story. And like so many times when the kids, so animated and beautiful, go into their tales, I don't hear what they are saying. I'm mesmerized by their faces. Emmett brought me back to my high school reunion when I attempted to talk with Dennis, the king of our graduating class. Dennis was on my football team, and I saw him in the bar where I was playing pool. The winner of the Handsome Harry contest for our school, Craig, interrupted our conversation to tell Dennis a joke. His hat was on backwards and he still looked as young to me as in '83. His face was alight, so eager to please Dennis. Just like my son before me.

I still bear the weight of that night, when I realized after ten post-high-school-years, I was still that awkward kid, invisible to the royal elite. But now I am Dennis to the three most important people in my world. The least I can do is shed the past and pave for the future.

I'm certainly trying.

And what makes me such a special dad. One simple thing: I never grew up. And everyone knows it. Three days ago, Jackson wrote the word "poop" in invisible ink and his spy-pad, the writing only visible under a black light. His pen has such a light where the eraser would normally be, and as I walked in I saw the word just before he clicked it off and put on his guilty/innocent face.

"Did I just see the word poop!"

"How did you know?!"

"I saw it."

"But how did you read it so fast?"

"It's what I call a sight-word. The kind that is instantly recognizable. It's not like I had to go," I wore a dopey face and pursed my lips, "puh... oooooooo... puh..." I pondered the phoenetic sounds then said with more confidence, "Puh oooo puh. Hey, wait a minute, that's poop!"

He was still laughing when I put him to bed.

The Shell Game

I'm reading an absolutely frightening book called The Shell Game. It's a political thriller forecasting the inevitable conclusion of modern events. Its detractors will label the author as a liberal loon, a radical and conspiracy theorist. But nobody could justifiably call his work under-researched.

My friend Eric had me read a book a while back regarding Peak Oil. I don't remember the title exactly, but I'm sure it is still on my shelf. It really freaked me out. Badly. For a while I told all my friends about it, the implications of just a shortage of oil. Forget about the taps going dry. It only takes for oil to cost more in oil to retrieve to cause the dominos to fall, a situation that could possibly already exist.

My friends would smile and nod and ask patronizingly, "How long do we have?"

The fact is that we, as Americans, have no clue what's really going on in Washington, even those that do listen to NPR. We can debate whether or not whistle-blowers are telling the truth or not, if the Patriot Act really is necessary or is just an intentional and aggressive erosion of our rights. We take sides by choosing Democrat or Republican, as if either choice will make a difference. There isn't a politician out there that has a chance of getting his or her party nomination, much less elected to the presidency, who will do what is necessary to put our people in a position to survive the end of cheap energy. We think we live in a democracy, that grand a beautiful illusion, but we do not. We are ruled by money—a shitload of money.

Those of you that have known me know that I have been a Bush supporter. That has officially come to an end. Will I vote for Obama or Hillary? Not on your life. Not unless there is no other choice. I will "waste" my vote on an independent candidate that sings the right song. In my opinion, if the right candidate did ascend to the presidency, he or she would be murdered within a year. Like I said, money rules, and money kills. I just hope that our hero will be carrying a grenade, pin pulled. We need a champion. To quote The Shell Game:

The brakes are shot and civilization is being diverted, instructed to gaze in the rearview mirror as we drive ourselves off a cliff, only you're too busy micro-managing your life to see what's happening.

What would you do to survive if there was no more food at the grocery stores? Or if water no longer poured from your faucet?

And if you think that isn't possible, consider that it is oil that creates the fertilizers that coax the soil into producing agricultural products at unsustainable rates. The population has grown in proportion to that capacity. Without oil, food production drops, and with it so too the population. It's that simple. Add to that the conundrum of our global economy. We used to be an agrarian society, but now we import most of the food we eat. Our farm lands are being paved over. So if food can no longer be imported, then where is it going to come from? Answer: nowhere.

I know most readers have developed distaste for what I am saying. That's ok. I get it. But I have kids to take care of, and turning away from inconvenient truths is no way of going about it. I don't have a plan yet. But it's developing.

Just When I Thought…

I spoke a bit too soon when I gave my opinion on Wicked. The first half was brilliant, but the other… perhaps too abstract and slow. It was as if, with the end approaching, the author simply threw up his hands and said, "This has gotten out of hand, now how do I kill her?" I really became attached to Elphaba because she was smart and had a big heart. Her life was tough, and her beliefs were mocked as paranoid, though all along she was spot-on. I was sure, after all her suffering that eventually something wonderful awaited her at her end of the rainbow.

Uh… not so much.

From a gratification standpoint this novel completely failed. Obviously there are many out there that love this from cover to cover, but I for one will not read any more of Maguire's novels. He hammered this poor girl relentlessly. Ok, for a short while she found a ray of happiness, but that was simply used to make her life even worse than it was. Even her friends were a disappointment, her family too. In the end I was well beyond depressed; I was disgusted.

In the first half Elphaba was in college. It wasn't easy being green, but she had finally made some good friends and was enjoyed for her wit. She was approached with an offer that could have made for an interesting second half, but the offer was barely a factor in the upcoming events. Later Elphaba found the Grimmerie, a book of magic from another world. Cool, I thought, this could get interesting! Nope. Another non-factor. In fact, nothing interesting happened whatsoever in the second half unless you enjoy watching someone you love wither and die from a terminal disease.

And the ending! What the hell? I'm convinced that the author got lost and had to wrap things up. What a total disappointment.

I remember once that a blog-buddy Janie read a short story of mine and told me to rewrite the ending because from a satisfaction standpoint it let her down that the protag had been dreaming all along. She wanted me to make it real instead. If I were a proof reader, my advice would be to live up to the promises made in the opening chapters. Let her be just a little bit capable.

It reminds me of an expression from an eighties ski movie, "We were small but we were slow."

This steaming kettle boils down to one word: bummer.

Wicked

I haven't been hooked on a book like this since I was a teenager haunting the local drug store for the next in the Dune Series. Gregory Maguire rocks!

To Summarize

Where have I been? Let me count the ways.

I'm going to relate a story about work. Hang with me, there are other subjects below.

Remember when I waxed poetic about the boss and how he respects me? That theory was tested sorely. There is a genre (if you will) of computer programming dealing with what is called multi-threading. What this means is that there are two (or more!) "things" going on at the same time that sometimes need to synchronize with the other. This can be a nightmare, and has been mine for the last three weeks. We have a software release coming up to a major customer, so now there is a team of quality assurance folks that have been telling me about problems without providing much more detail than that. The longer these problems persist, the more my credibility slips. So all that goodwill I built up--remember?--took a shot in the gut.

My boss put it to me like this: I had until last Monday to fix it or we had to "punt." Meaning that if the problem couldn't be fixed, I had to back off everything I had been working on to the last functional state.

I worked through the weekend. My wife and kids had to take a backseat for the first time in I can't remember when. Daddy was a bear.

Come Monday evening I was forced to make the call. I was frustrated. Totally defeated. How close are you my boss asked me? Very close, but I've felt like I've been very close for a week now but it keeps coming back. Ok, he told me, send me a list of everything you've done and I'll take a look.

So this is what I did. In that process I saw something very odd in what I had done. Without explaining, I simply took it out. Voila. Problem fixed. For good. There was one other item that had persisted and I found that too. The quality assurance folks tested again and I was exhonerrated for all of it.

I tell you this: I was on the brink of despair. My job was still secure, but come April I will have to negotiate a salary, as I am a contractor now, and this situation wouldn't have helped. At least now I can say I was able to work through a hard issue.

Ok.

We're not broke, but we're not rich. We went a little crazy on Saturday and outfitted our four-person family in skis. Except for me. I got a snowboard. On Sunday we all went to the bunny slopes.

Jackson is one of those kids that doesn't have much patience for trial and error. If it is hard, he might not make it past the rookie stage of the game. We rented snowboards a month ago and he didn't like it. I tried to talk him into a new snowboard, but he opted for skis.

Good choice.

I could not get him off the hill yesterday. He was a natural.

Emmett is four years his junior. I held Emmett's hand and scooted him across the base while he learned to just keep his balance. After a while I gave him a push and ran after him while he slid on his own, screaming, "I'm skiing!" We went up the conveyer belt and I pointed him in a safe direction and let him go. Somehow he always managed to point right at a clump of trees or some obstacle, so Daddy was running like hell the whole time. Next time I think I'll get him in a lesson. If he could only learn to stop and turn we could all go at the same time.

As for me, I learned to turn on my front edge without falling every single time. Backwards is still a problem, but in my defense I only got about six or eight runs on the slope before it was my turn with Emmett again. I landed on my tail bone three or four times, each being worse than the previous. I couldn't bend over or pick up so much as the tv remote that night, and today I am like Christopher Pike at Kirk's trial in the Menagerie.

In other news, I am totally addicted to Call of Duty: Modern Warfare. This might offend some of my liberal friends, as this is game is about nothing but killing and killing again. To me this is cartoon violence, however graphic. I've been playing this multi-player, against snot-nosed kids that aren't even old enough to drive a car, and getting my butt handed to me. I'm getting better at it, but still, there are so many people out there to whom the game controls are second nature.

As for writing, well, that's the thing. I've put too much pressure on myself, and now I have to take a break. For a simple western short story I have researched and read and pondered and speculated and stressed. I'm sick of it. I need a break. I bitched about not being recognized in Jason's contests and now I've marked myself as a baby--and rightfully so. If I want to be a writer I have to handle rejection, and I'm not very good at it. Maybe I'm not cut out for it. I'm not giving up, but I see some of my co-bloggers having success and I can't even place in a contest. I've managed to exclude myself from even being invited and lost a few blog-friends in the process. And it all goes back to handling rejection badly.

So, it's time to hang up the pen, take a sabatical and come back fresh when I'm ready.

Quick Hits

So I've been more absent lately than my usual, but I have a good excuse.

Same old. Work.

But in a good way. I'm delivering some stuff I've been working on for quite a long while now. It's deep-in-the-weeds stuff that makes a great impression with the boss and only the boss, the only person who can really understand what an endeavor I've undertaken. He's a cool boss to have. He really trusts me, and that is a rare commodity in this business indeed. He has basically been at the company from its inception and has written most of the software that I am now modifying. So when I call him and say that I need to make a change to it, I expect that he would be leery or more inquisitive as to the what and why. It's not like he doesn't ask, but he is satisfied quickly that I'm on the right track.

I would be a fool to work for anyone else.

Now I just have to prove that his trust is well-founded.

Happy Valentines Day!

A couple cute things that my son did. First, which actually isn't so cute--more on the gross side--he has discovered that the base of this thumb can come "unhitched" if you will. So he can basically move the bottom of his thumb from side to side in little jerks. It's freaky. It was one of those family moments with Emmett standing on our bed while Jackson, my wife and I were cracking up and cringing at the same time.

Did you know that Emmett can spell? He's only four years old but can spell almost any word. For instance, "Hey Emmett. How do you spell encyclopedia?" Answer: "H-J-K-11-12-14-16-20."

He's been playing Metroid Fusion on his Gameboy, both of which he inherited from his older brother when Jackson got the Nintendo DS. It's one of those games that has a boss every so often that needs to be defeated before moving on to the next level. For some reason he calls each boss "L-M-N-O-6", which sounds like "Elemenosix." Super cute.

And lastly, and only because I'm drawing blanks on anything else at the moment, Emmett came out of our room yesterday when his momma's suede high-heeled boots, which fit his legs perfectly. He looked like puss-in-boots from the Shrek sequels. Don't worry, we've got pictures.

Winning Ticket

Emmett won his first raffle last Friday. The prize: a laundry basket filled with cars and trucks, and puzzles and games of a related theme. It was a monster pick. The raffle was sponsored at Jackson's elementary school, so there was a swarm of hopeful kids in and outside the library when the principal called out Emmett's name.

I didn't expect to win anything because we had been through this drill twice before in years past. I was sitting in the cafeteria with a friend when a mother raced around the corner and hollered the winning news. Taking the prize basket and negotiating my way back to my seat, I felt like a scantily clad woman suddenly dropped in the midst of maximum security prisoners. Lifers. These kids, and their parents too, stared at me like I was a grade A prime cut of meat. Who am I kidding though? I had to refrain from sticking my tongue out and chanting nanny, nanny billy goat!

Suddenly Emmett was a celebrity. Every kid his age has a built-in urge to fit in and play with the older kids, and the older kids know it. Thank goodness I was there to supervise. There were some duplicate Matchbox cars that I allowed him to give away to one of Jackson's friends. Other kids I didn't even know were begging to "borrow" certain items, like a little Hot Wheelz scooter (if you can believe it). The kid's mother put the kibosh on that. It's hard to imagine a parent that wouldn't, but such do exist in shockingly large numbers, parents that can't bear to tell their little angel no.

The experience reminded me of the time when Jackson was Emmett's age. We were at Marine World in Vallejo, California. It was one of those low-probability games where you purchase a bucket of plastic rings and try to loop them over the top of a bottle. It seems easy at first because of the sheer size of the tightly packed grid of bottles. We had nearly gone through the entire bucket, and Jackson wanted to throw the last one. He over-handed it, a fast ball right down the middle, and it stuck as if he had thrown a dart. The prize was an enormous red Chihuahua dog, which I had to carry to the car in the parking lot far far away. Same thing, all the people staring and I thinking eat your heart out, as if this monstrosity I held aloft was the Holy Grail.

There is just something about winning a thing that makes it special. It's attached to the end of an inexhaustible string, a tether that leads across time to wherever and whenever you are.

Congrats to Eli and Co.

I'm sure Beth has already composed her masterpiece, a love ballad to the brothers Manning. But I have to add to her chorus. Congratulations to the Giants who played the most outstanding defensive football game I have probably ever seen. The Superbowl is almost always a foregone conclusion. In the nineties it always came down to the NFC championship, and in the Patriots/Colts era it's been the AFC championship. Hardly ever do you see two teams really duke it out in the Superbowl. That certainly changed this year.

Three weeks ago, the Giants beat my Cowboys. They played hard and deserved the win, but they wouldn't have won if Patrick Crayton wouldn't have stopped on a route with 23 seconds left to go in the game, or if the same wouldn't have dropped a pass earlier, or Anthony Fasano wouldn't have dropped a pass in the end zone. I could go on. The bottom line is, it is nothing short of a miracle that the Giants even got to the big game. But I can promise you this: only the Giants could have did what they did to the Patriots.

The Giants did the impossible. They made Tom Brady look human, as in to err is human. Brady spent as much time on his back as he did standing up. And when he did get a little time to scope downfield, he heard the footsteps of Strahan, Umenyiora and Justin Tuck. There were even a few rookies getting in on the sack fest. Randy who? Only Wes Welker performed like he did all season long, but that was not nearly enough.

The Pats defense did a great job as well. It came down to which team would make the big play. Manning wasn't perfect, but dammit man! he was Cool Hand Luke. It came down to the last drive of the game, the Giants needing a touchdown. If you didn't see it… You don't have to be football fan to appreciate how that went down. There were two minutes, thirty seconds left in the game. The Giants were pinned at something like the fifteen yard line. They really hadn't done much with the ball all day, only having scored a touchdown and a field goal. Troy Aikman, the announcer who knows a little something about winning Superbowls, said that the Giant's situation was what every quarterback dreamed of, four points down and needing a touchdown to win.

And I'll be darned if Eli didn't deliver. Assante Samuel, a defensive back for the Patriots, could have ended the game with an easy interception that went right through his fingers. He had two palms on the ball too.

Then Giants receiver David Tyree catches a desperation pass after Eli barely escaped a sack. Tyree (see the image to the left) brought the ball down onto his helmet and pinned it there with one hand and never dropped it. What the…? Unbelievable. Then Plaxico Burress, who hadn't been a factor all night, catches an easy floater in the end zone, just like he and Eli, wearing shorts, practiced before the game. Wow.

But still, there were thirty five seconds left, and the Patriots had all their timeouts, but great coverage on the kick would make the Pats work for it. But the Giants defense clamped down. Ruthless and decisive.

My condolences to my good friend, Mr. Schprock. But I have gotten so sick of hearing about the dominance of the AFC. And there is just a little bit of poetic justice to how the season ended for the Patriots, who got caught videotaping signals of their opponents, then got a slap on the wrist (relatively speaking—that same slap on me would have me living on the streets). The Cowboys quarterbacks coach, Wade Wilson, was suspended for a quarter of the season because he tested positive for a drug that he had taken legitimately by prescription, but Belichick paid a fine and a draft pick (they had two first round picks and still have the seventh overall), and was not suspended. Oh, and he got coach of the year. I'm not saying he isn't the best coach that ever coached the game, but I would say he got away with one. Then for half a season he ran up the score on weaker opponents, playing for blood when the other teams were already bleeding out of every orifice.

My apologies to fans of the Patriots. Sincerely. But if the Patriots would have won that game, in my mind, a great injustice would have gone unpunished. There should be honor in sports, and nobody likes a bully.

But today is about the underdog. Nobody gave little Davie a chance against Goliath.

How do you think Archie Manning feels right now about his boys?

Movie Review: Juno

There were two things I knew for certain when I walked out of this movie: first, this was the best movie I have seen in at least a year; and second, Ellen Page is the greatest actress of her generation. The last time I was stunned this way: Natalie Portman in The Professional. But Page is much better, if not quite as cute. Talent trumps all, and Ellen Page is the real deal. Her comic timing is impeccable, and Humphrey Bogart would be proud of this young woman who has his knack for acting without speaking.

What could have been American Pie meets She's Having a Baby quickly establishes itself as an original. Hard to do with all the elements of a typical high school flick: the popular jock, the geeky friend (Michael Cerra) who loves Juno (Ellen Page), her parents she leans on for support, the cheerleader girlfriend(Olivia Therby). But nothing goes quite the way we've been programmed to expect.

Take the scene where Juno tells her parents that she's pregnant. I won't spoil it for you, but how do you expect that scene to play out? Let's just say that in this brilliant screenplay by first-timer Diablo Cody, the parental units are not just mindless automatons. For the first time in history of the genre (if this can be nailed down to a single genre), parents have been allowed to think and to be an important part of their child's life. Stand up and clap for Allison Janney, as Juno's stepmom, and J.K. McGruff, as her father. Funny and simply lovable, they made it real.

You would expect at some point to meet a bad guy, someone whose intentions are bad. You might think we've finally met one or both of them in Jason Bateman (he's been gone way too long!) and Jennifer Garner, a couple that by all appearances has that which any American couple aspires. But not even within their damaged relationship can we really assign blame. They should have just agreed to see other people. Juno is the match that lights that cinder box, but again, not in any way you would expect.

This movie reminds me again that Hollywood has lost its spark. Perhaps it's been too busy telling us how to vote and defending child rapists rather than applying itself to the business we pay it for. Juno hearkens back to the old days when I would quote all the funny lines from a John Hughes movie, and my schoolmates already knew them by heart. I can only hope this is just a small sample of things to come.

This is so my sense of humor

This reminds of pranks that I've played in the past. Now if I could only remember...

MotherLoad

The game is called MotherLoad. My three-year-old found this when he was supposed to be playing another daddy-sanctioned game, but his little fingers are guided by the spirit of the surfer. I'll have to keep an eye on him!

Anyway, the game is highly addictive once you figure out how to play it. I was supposed to be researching for my WIP last night, but three hours later I decided I should probably get some sleep.

Click on the image to check it out.

Caveat emptor!

Do You Know Who This Is?

This girl needs my help.

Sigh.

Not only is she beautiful, but she's rich. (How rich? More than you can imagine. I can imagine a lot.) Or should that be the other way around?

You see, she has fifteen million dollars in a bank account and needs someone that she can trust, namely me, to invest it for her here in America. Smart too. She wants to diversify across market sectors.

The money was willed to her by a rich uncle (who was recently poisoned--long story). Now she has to move the money out of her account, and soon, before her brothers get their hands on it and leave her penniless.

I have to help, if not for her, then to strike a blow against the injustices of patriarchical society!

Oh, and she can't wait to meet me. She's single too. In life, it's really about timing. What are the chances?

The Boston FBI informs me (with a chuckle) that they already have reams of info on this one. But thanks for calling.

Third Tynes a Charm

The first thing I did this morning was to google the title of this post. The results were exactly what I expected. It was too much to hope for that nobody else thought of that newspaper headline to summarize yesterdays NFC championship game.

(Lawrence Tynes missed two field goals that would have iced the game in the fourth quarter. In overtime, he nailed his third attempt, splitting the uprights.)

My previous post was intended to be an actual post. I've been composing in Word, which has a feature now to auto-publish to a blog. For some reason, before I was finished it simply published it before I was finished. I hadn't had a post in a while so I figured what the heck.

I'm down to three lady bugs, by the way. One more went to the Lady Bug Picnic In the Sky.

Emmett is running up the steps; mommy is gone away for an appointment. Surprise, he didn't come into my office—yet.

Now that the fog of the football season has evaporated into the clouds, I'll take this moment to look around and breathe the air.

How many there were to start with I can't remember, but I'd say I've lost five or so ladybugs from their little bug hut home I have beside me on my desk. It makes me a little sad when I see one on its back, sometimes just a tiny leg swaying ever so slightly.

Jackson just got back from school—early release day, you see. Momma is out for a couple hours, so I'm hanging out here, trying to work and squeeze in a post.

Concession Speech

For the rest of the season, I'm officially a Packers fan.

I don't want to talk about it right now, other than to say that when the ball was intercepted in the endzone to end the game and the season, I had a moment of utter dispair. After I stopped the Tivo from recording, deleted it, and turned the TV off, my wife said quietly, "I'm sorry."

"I can't believe we lost to the GIANTS..."

Then, without saying another word, I walked up stairs, flossed and brushed my teeth, took a deep breath, went downstairs again and joined my wife and kids at the table.

I said, "Ok, I'm over it now."

Thanks for one hell of a season, Cowboys. Thirteen and three, first round bye in the playoffs, and a young, talented roster to take us into the future.

Not too shabby.

Leave Tony Romo Alone!

This won't make much sense if you haven't been following Jessicagate, the Cowboys or football in general, but you have to check out this parody of the infamous Chris Crocker YouTube video. I have no idea who Chris Crocker is, but he certainly seems to have affection for Britney Spears.

Turn down the volume knob, ok?

Getcha Popcorn Ready

My manager is a Packers fan, as is my wife. I just found out that one of my coworkers is a life-long Giants fan. At least nobody with any direct influence over my well being has a Jones for the Seahawks.

So, this weekend is shaping up to be an unstable stick of dynamite.

Everyone knows I'm a huge Cowboys fan, and I have not been encouraged by the way my team played down the stretch, but it seems that everyone in the media has completely written them off. I've sort of come to expect it, but it still kind of stings to be reminded.

Eli Manning, the younger brother of Peyton Manning, played two good games back to back. The first, against the Patriots, was a valiant effort for three quarters. The loss though was perceived as a win. The following week, the Giants beat the Buccaneers in a wild-card matchup. Now, according to the mediots, the Giants are resurging; Eli is playing "within himself", and will be too much for the struggling Cowboys to handle.

The Giants pass rush will be too much to handle too. But what these people seem to be forgetting, or at least attaching no significance to, is that the Cowboys line has held that monster pass rush in check for two games this season, games that the Cowboys won, and kept Tony Romo upright but for two sacks. In two meetings, our defense was missing one of its two starters. The first time it was our star corner Terrence Newman; the second time it was Anthony Henry. And both times, Eli Manning torched the backup Jacques Reeves, who has shown some spark, but would not normally crack the starting lineup on any NFL team.

But nobody pays this fact any attention. They will however be quick to tell you that in that second meeting, Giants receiver Plaxico Burress was hobbled by an ankle injury.

Well let me set the record straight about what's going to happen on Sunday. The Cowboys, contrary to reports coming from the coaches, will have TO back in the lineup. The Giants will be facing a couple firsts in this meeting. For the first time, their receivers will be facing Terrence Newman and Anthony Henry. And also for the first time, they will be facing Terrell Owens and Terry Glenn, both receivers on a normal day would be drawing double coverage. Terry Glenn has been hurt all year, getting a few snaps in the season ender with Washington to knock the dew off his lilly. Reports from practice say that Glenn is looking like his old self. If that's true, then I give the Giants no chance in this game whatsoever. Because the recipe for beating the Cowboys involves single coverage on wide receivers and crowding the line of scrimmage. If everyone is healthy, then that just isn't possible. Look for big days from TO, Glenn, Witten and Marion the Barbarian.

Like TO says, "Getcha popcorn ready."

Prediction, Cowboys 35, Giants 17.

Another prediction: The media will still find a way to attribute the Cowboys win to luck and poor focus on the Giants part. But the reality will be, that after this game, the Cowboys will have their swagger back and kick buttocks in the NFC championship.

The Super Bowl I don't even want to think about. For all my bold predictions, I'm nervous as hell. The one thing I hate more than losing is to lose when everyone is predicting it like a foregone conclusion.